


a good match

by Teteria



Category: SK8 the Infinity (Anime)
Genre: Gen, M/M, anyway, author wrote this in a fit of hysteria at 2 am, i am scarred by some of the tags that showed up on god im sick to my stomach omg dhgjahkga, sort of a character study too but v subtle bc i couldnt rlly incorporate all of my thoughts oop, takes place after ep 9, they're best friends n i want them to make up desperately
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 14:08:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30056652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teteria/pseuds/Teteria
Summary: "Langa’s flexing his hand now, stretching his fingers and taking hold of Reki’s wrist. He’s looking at their joined hands and not at him, at least not straight on. He looks like he’s arranging his ideas, so Reki remains quiet and tries to engage in a thumb war. Langa closes his fist over Reki’s fingers, stilling them, and sighs. “When your head aches, you don’t have to keep it to yourself or pretend you’re fine, Reki.”Reki doesn’t think anyone says his name as often as Langa does in a day alone. “Yeah, I know now,” he says solemnly. “You don’t need to sweat it over me, Langa.”Langa doesn’t sweat it."or: Langa, Reki and a much needed heart to heart.
Relationships: Hasegawa Langa & Kyan Reki, Hasegawa Langa/Kyan Reki
Comments: 9
Kudos: 136





	a good match

**Author's Note:**

> originally i wanted to write smthg abt reki wearing eyeliner bc have u looked at him???? he totally does and it's no small feat eyeliner is so hard to put on and WHAT FOR. Anyway, i hope u enjoy! this isnt beta'd and im not a native so if u catch anything lmk muack muack
> 
> [renga playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/76rxVlnRwF1uhOrwTeXTiS?si=9EX9DBT_TfeoANu1MMJeMA)

There are many things Reki’s made a habit of not telling anybody.

When he was a child and his head ached in the middle of the night, he wouldn’t leave his bed to try and wake his parents. He’d merely squeeze his eyes shut, tight as he could, and press his forehead against the warmed pillow cover as if it could offer some sort of relief. He’d raise both hands to his head, stacking them one over the other, and let the tears fall quietly for minutes, or hours, or however long it took until his someone showed up at his door, but ideally, they wouldn’t show up at all and Reki would tire himself out and fall asleep like that, belly down and face blotchy.

He never thought it was particularly weird, was it? It was late at night, the house quiet each time, and his parents both had things to do the next day, adult things that ensured Reki would be safe and happy. He wanted his parents to be safe and happy too, so he let them sleep and tried to make the pain go away on his own, even if it meant ignoring it until it wasn’t a problem anymore.

He’s never really told this story to anyone, because it’s just a silly childhood memory, but he’s at the skate park with Langa, rubbing the boy’s bruised knuckles gently and with care as they take a water break because that’s what best friends do. Langa’s whining about having struggled through literature class with a slight headache, so it was only natural for Reki to offer something in return, right? Like when a teacher tries to relate to students by talking about their own schooldays. Reki thinks it makes sense, there’s a logical connection between what Langa said and what Reki offered in return, so he raises an eyebrow a bit when the boy turns to him and says “You don’t have to do that, though.”

His knuckles don’t bleed the way they did during that first week of skating and Reki thinks it’s because Langa’s gotten better at taking a fall. His skin is smooth and soft, but his hands are starting to roughen a little. It’s nice, he thinks, losing the thread of this conversation when Langa hooks his index finger around Reki’s own. His nails are clipped short, pristine while Reki’s are bitten at the corners, a bit jagged after a late night polishing a board. “What?”

Langa’s flexing his hand now, stretching his fingers and taking hold of Reki’s wrist. He’s looking at their joined hands and not at him, at least not straight on. He looks like he’s arranging his ideas, so Reki remains quiet and tries to engage in a thumb war. Langa closes his fist over Reki’s fingers, stilling them, and sighs. “When your head aches, you don’t have to keep it to yourself or pretend you’re fine, Reki.”

Reki doesn’t think anyone says his name as often as Langa does in a day alone. It’s always _“Reki, do you think we could try this out later?”_ after watching a skating video on one of their phones, or _“I might not do great in that last quiz, Reki”_ after first period _._ When it comes to Langa, the best of the best and the worst of the worst both start or end with _Reki._ The thought makes Reki grin, which is a foolish reaction now, so he shakes his head and instead tunes back into the conversation at hand. “Yeah, I know now,” he says solemnly. “You don’t need to sweat it over me, Langa.”

They fist bump, affectionately, because everything they do is soaked in affection nowadays, and go back to sipping water and giggling at each other.

Langa doesn’t sweat it.

* * *

He should’ve known, really, that whatever they had going on could not feed off telepathy.

Langa can speak English and learn how to pop an ollie in two weeks, he can charm his way out of detention without really intending to do so and he can ask Reki for help with math homework without blushing anymore. Langa can win at S every weekend, he can get on with everyone at school, he can gape in awe at lunch bentos and drive motorbikes and do countless other things because Langa’s amazing and inspiring, he’s spontaneous and kind, genuine and brave, because up until a few months ago, skating was the coolest thing in Reki’s life and now, the meaning of skating, of _happiness_ , is inherently attached to Langa, and Reki can’t even resent that.

He’s hurt and feels betrayed, he’s bitter and disappointed. Reki feels empty handed, forgotten, and has been nursing something akin to heartbreak for days now, but mostly, Reki feels ashamed. He’s ashamed of having assumed that Langa would _get him_ unconditionally, of having assumed he himself would always be on the same wavelength as him. He’s ashamed of his own wounded pride, of how even now he does not deem it worthless. He’s ashamed of being so _talentless_ he’s been pushed into a corner, shriveled by fear. He’s ashamed and he’s sad, but he’s also a boy, young and unmade, and he misses Langa like a limb.

Reki comes out to watch Langa skate and the ugly, poisonous feeling curling in his gut now isn’t shame, fear or defeat, it’s anger. He’s seeing Langa skate for the first time in days, but his eyes don’t sparkle, his mouth won’t curl in delight, his brow won’t furrow in defiance. Instead, he’s a carcass of what he used to be, eyes vacant, boyish features slack, and the whole world seems hopeless and meaningless. Joe sped by a long time ago and the guys around him are mumbling and murmuring and _mocking_ Snow. A sharp feeling stabs at Reki’s stomach because they don’t know anything about Langa. He can’t have this, he can’t stand this. It’s so pathetic, so _uncool_ , and Langa, who is supposed to be skating personified, cannot afford to look like this, to be this unhappy. He chose this over his loyalty to Reki and so it can’t go to waste. Reki will not let his dignity go down the drain, so he slams a foot down as Langa reaches the curve and yells with his whole stomach.

Their eyes meet, the anger drains, their tempers fuse, and Langa grins, holds a hand to his chest and speeds up, farther and farther away. He’s rushing towards something, making the seconds tick by faster than ever, and Reki’s awed and inexplicably sad. He’s in love with skating and his stomach churns with an unnamable yet unmistakable kind of hunger when he realizes that this is everything he’s not, that this is everything he can’t have. Langa sped off as if in search of something and Reki will hand in his pin because of it too. He needs to step back and _be better._

He misses skating. He doesn’t bother wondering what’s the point of everything he’s feeling.

* * *

He’s nearing home, already groaning internally at the thought of having to climb up his window, when a voice calls for him.

He turns, confused, and sees Langa barreling at full speed through the neighborhood at ass o’clock towards him. His eyes widen, his insides twist and the disheveled hair, rumpled shirt and dusty gloves nearly make him forget himself and feel hopeful until he sees the broken board held under Langa’s arm. He comes at a stop three steps before him and doubles over, hands to his knees as he tries to catch his breath. Reki, for once, doesn’t speak up first. He just stares at the boy before him, feeling equally breathless.

“Reki,” Langa begins as he straightens himself, because everything starts and ends with Reki’s name. His eyes twitch nervously, and he clears his throat. He seems as lost as he did the last time they stood in front of this fucking _stupid_ stairway. “Reki,” he says again, like a broken record, like he’s waiting to be spared.

Reki’s a kind person. “Your board,” he says.

Langa startles, looking down at the halves of the board as if having forgotten it was there at all. He looks miserable and Reki, despite everything, can’t stand it. “Here,” he declares, reaching for it. Langa flinches and they both quiet down for a second, but Reki won’t budge. “Here,” he repeats, softer, and grabs it. “Let me see.”

He stares at the wood, the splinters sticking out. He can feel Langa’s eyes burning holes through his head, but he can’t deal with it right now, so he focuses on the board. It’s unsalvageable, nothing but cracked wood now, and he tells Langa as much. “I can’t get a new one,” he says, and Reki’s unsure if he feels like crying because he missed Langa or because it’s well past one and he’s beyond emotional intelligence. “I can’t skate without this one.” Reki feels hot all over. Of course this would be it. It’s his fault, really, for having brought up the board. For thinking Langa needed him for anything else. He’s about to speak up, to cry out, to blow up, when Langa continues. “I need this one, because you made it for me.”

The sentence doesn’t do much for Reki’s mood, but there’s something about the wording that makes him pause. “What?”

“Reki,” Langa says, because he’s always singing _Reki, Reki, Reki_. “You came today,” and Reki has officially no fucking idea of where this conversation is supposed to go. He huffs out a breath.

“Of course I did, dude,” and he means it. Of course he did. Of course he made a board for Langa, of course he ran out to see him in the middle of the night, of course he’ll turn to mush if Langa says the right thing, and he always does, eventually, because he takes a half of the board from Reki and says, in his gentle, breeze of a voice, “I started snowboarding because of dad, you know? It was something I did with him, and once he was gone, that part of me was too.”

Reki knows about Langa’s dad, because he’s told him himself, and he suspects the wound is fresh and unhealed, deeper than Langa lets on. It’s a hurt Langa hides, rarely addresses, but that weighs down on him and shows in the way he retreats into himself always. His hand twitches at his side, yearns to hold any part of Langa and offer comfort somehow, but he holds still, eyes cast downwards. “When I came to Okinawa, I still felt like I was going to die. I felt so numb, Reki, I didn’t even realize I was merely going through the motions until I-” he pauses, takes an unsteady breath. “I can’t skate without you,” he says.

Reki looks up, awed. _I can’t skate without you_ , Langa had said, and he could mean the board tailored to only him, or he could mean the hours poured into teaching him the basics, or he could mean the friendship, the warmth, the comfort. He could mean all of it and Reki guesses that doesn’t even begin to cover any of it judging by Langa’s wide and vulnerable eyes, expression dripping with adoration, so he does what he feels like doing at the moment and lets go. “You can’t skate without me?” he asks, just because he needs to know, for sure, and doesn’t even care that his voice quavers.

Langa takes a step, two. “No, it—” he pauses again; he pauses so much when it comes to words, and Reki doesn’t mind, will never mind, because Langa is his best friend, the best friend he’s ever had, and he’s here to take as many steps as necessary to breach this heinous distance between the two, so Reki will play fair and do his part. “I used to think it was skating itself that I found exhilarating. I thought it was the challenge and the danger what made my blood pump and heart beat, but it’s not. It’s not if you’re not there, it’s not fun unless you’re happy too.”

His hands are shaking and he honestly feels like hitting his head with the piece of cracked plank if only to pass out and spare himself. “You promised,” he says, voice small. “You promised something before, and it didn’t matter.”

Langa doesn’t step back, but his shoulders do sag, shrinking impossibly more. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, then thinks of it. “I haven’t broken it, though,” he argues weakly, and Reki nearly smiles. “I won’t do it. I don’t even have a board anymore, and I won’t skate with any other, I _can’t_ skate with any other. Reki,” he says, tone pressing. “Reki, I won’t skate with anyone but you. I don’t skate for anyone but you, it’s either both of us or neither of us, okay?”

Reki thinks, distantly, that normal friends don’t say this type of things to each other, but Langa’s brow is furrowed, his nose scrunched up in frustration, his eyes soft with exhaustion and devotion, and Reki can only hear his heartbeat and the words _I don’t skate for anyone but you_ over and over. He takes the last step, reaching for Langa’s hand. “We’ll make you a new board,” he says. “Tomorrow, you can help me. Some pieces are salvageable, we’ll just fix it right up.” Langa looks frantic, concussed, like he’ll burst out into tears anytime now, and Reki lets out a wet chuckle at his expression. “That cool, dude?”

Langa takes a deep breath, chokes a little on it, but squeezes Reki’s hand and nods. “Yeah, that’s—” he smiles, for real now, and Reki returns the grin, full force. “That’s perfect,” he agrees, and falls into step. “Reki,” he starts again. “You’ll skate with me, right?”

Reki turns to the sky. “I mean, I guess so? I’m not—”

“You are,” Langa states, firm. He turns to look at him, and finds his jaw is set, his eyes unwavering. “Last time, you spoke of prodigies. I didn’t then, but I get it now. Reki, you adjusted a board so I can perform while skating the way I do at a sport I have over a decade of experience in. I said skating isn’t exciting without you, but for me it’s— it’s not even possible.” And wow, would you look at that? This is probably the most eloquent Langa’s been on anything ever, so Reki can only wonder if he’s always known this, always perceived things this way. To Reki, skating is his happiness, and Langa is the perfect image of a skater. To Langa, skating is also happiness, and it is only possible because of Reki. The thought warms him, makes him giddy and furious that they’d been upset with each other at all.

He knows they’ve more to discuss tomorrow morning, that proper apologies are owed and these bruises cannot get glossed over, but right now Langa is yawning and they’ve made it to Reki’s house, so for now, they just squeeze each other’s hands and climb into bed. For now, they hold each other tightly and cry, the both of them, and curl up to sleep.

Tomorrow morning, things will get better. For now, they rest.

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiii thank u for reading comments n kudos r appreciated n u can find my twitter [hereeee](https://twitter.com/teteriaa) i barely got into using it, so do hmu n we can yell abt sk8 together :*


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